L'amour d'un tango mort
by Haley Moore
Summary: Just the pathetic scribblings of a dying old man. Yes I'm back! Muahahaha! Please r&r! update: decided to leave it as a oneshot. I think it has run its course.
1. Pathetic scribblings

L'amour d'un tango mort "The love of a dead tango" 

A/N: It's been last year since I've done anything, so here I am! I know I have the unfortunate habit of starting a story and never finishing it, but I promise to finish this one. (also to Zantetsuken steel-bladed sword, I'm sorry I haven't been reviewing)

"When someone begins, he can be dazzled by things that are external; the things of Tango are internal… A dancer arrives at the roots of the Tango when he falls in love…" - Eduardo Arquimba

(This is a flashback)

I am naked. The only warmth I feel is from the back of the mind, the rest is cold. Where are my clothes? Where is my shield? I feel scared, unloved...lonely. Have I always felt like this? I am running, but from what? All I know is that it is fear, and I must escape. I fall, and it finds me before I can react, I don't look, I only scream and…

"Holmes! Holmes wake up! Holmes, you're sweating!"…And there's Watson. Good old Watson. Why is he here? Where is that dark place? What is real?

"Huh? Mmmm" I groaned. "Watson? Why are you here?" It sounded silly to ask him that question, but I had to make certain he was real.

"Ummm…Holmes I live here, so do you…Are you quite all right Holmes?" I knew he was confused. So was I. I rarely ever had dreams so why did I now? And why did I have that one, right that night? What could it all mean?

….

Sussex is a land all it's own. It does not move with the whole of our ever routine planet. It in fact, has its own orbit, and no one but the people who live in this planet can truly understand that. Everything in it has been forgotten, the bees, the flowers, the trees, even myself.

Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes, all though when I rarely venture into public, some old admirer whispers into his friend's ear, "That's him, that's Sherlock Holmes!" And soon the entire square is looking at me, they always must check their eyes twice. Once a young woman strode over to me and told me, "I can't believe you're Sherlock Holmes!" I reply simply and thoughtfully with a sad smile, "Neither can I."

Yes, I'm afraid The Strand's description of me is quite outdated. I retain my piercing eyes, and my hawk-like nose but that is all. My shoulders are rounded from age, I've replaced my magnifying glass with an oak cane, my hair is silver, and I have a long white beard. Funny isn't it? How life so easily shortens every day, yet we always fail to notice it?

I am almost 94 years old. How I've survived this long, only God knows. Watson's dead. Unfortunately, my boswell had a heart attack some 20 years ago. Mycroft dead. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, all dead. I would never have guessed I would outlive them all. Although I wish I didn't. Life can get so lonely.

And of course, I am forgotten. There's no interest to be had for me anymore. I'm just old news. All though I prefer it this way. I enjoy my solitude. Strangely enough, I do not miss my old adventures, or the thrill of the game. In fact, I look upon them with an voluminous effect of embarrassment. How cocky was I, to believe I was so brilliant, so untouchable, so…God-like, that life could never end up like this! But life has a funny of reminding you of the exact error, it could have been only the slightest one, and turning it against you.

But I suppose I deserved it, didn't I? What I wouldn't do to have an hour more with Watson, so that I could tell him I was sorry for ordering him around, and lying to him in those three long years when he needed me most. So many things to be sorry for, so many things left un-said.

This is not a will, goodness no. What do I have to give? Nor is this a journal. This is the pathetic scribbling of a dying old man. Perhaps I'll burn it afterwards, despite the painstaking process of writing, and the hard work I put into it. But I could not care less about working in vain. That's basically the story of my life. I've worked so long, but what do I have to keep myself sane now? My bees? Oh, I digress. I do apologize, dear reader, if you are indeed reading this. The aging mind does so little to stay on task.

So then, where do I begin…

A/N: I'M BACK!!! So what do you think? Do tell!! (yay!!! I miss sooo much!!)


	2. Chapter 2

What is it about bees which fascinate me so? Watson, as I recall was quite taken aback when he learnt that I had decided, above all things on this earth, to take up bee-keeping.

Perhaps it is because they are so eerily like humans. They all work together to produce only enough for themselves, and double that for the Queen. Once the queen is gone, the bees continue to work. Yet one can always sense the absence of her. The queen, head of authority, must fight to keep her position. If another Queen comes, they must fight. She is either exiled, killed or recovers her position.

A particular hive lost its Queen today. And in the aforementioned manner. Competition over authority is an important thing; but is it really something to die for?

I suppose the only reason these things come into my mind is because this is how brother Mycroft died. Well, not in the same manner, but rather close. He was shot down by an enemy government. No one has yet to be blamed, but I have one particular dictator in mind who would have been most benefited by the lack of Mycroft's strategic prowess. They did not even put Mycroft's name in the obituary. I can understand why; the death of England's pinnacled government operative was already a shock to the country's state of being, and to make it public would only cost us more hope. I do miss Mycroft terribly. Despite the years it has been since his assassination.

Amongst other things, I have been pondering the human mind. I no longer think of it as a plumpish gray matter between our ears and inside our cranium, but as a long, forever-winding chain. Once a particular thought (or link if you will) is struck, it winds into more thoughts, and suddenly a chain of thoughts are coursing through this metaphorical winding and un-winding into a thousand little threads. In this case, the beginning link was bees, it linked to Mycroft, then to Watson.

Watson, I am reluctantly happier to say, had a heart attack some 20 years ago. Have I said that already? I really couldn't tell. I digress. He endured a far quicker death than brother Mycroft, who died of slow blood loss in his office at Whitechapel. He was married, to his third (fourth?) wife, and had two (three?) children. His going was simple, and easy and quick. I often get depressed by Watson's passing. Sometimes I awake to think he is there, standing beside me like the good old days. I often ask myself questions that Watson might ask at times to attempt to stimulate life into this battered old brain; and at times I think he has actually been there, has actually asked or answered my question. But every time I realize Watson can never ask me another question again. Johnson has been without his Boswell for twenty years.

I am too fatigued to continue with this. My heart feels far too heavy. I shall continue in my scribbling tomorrow.

S. Holmes


End file.
